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Sunday, July 26, 2015

Snake Food by Gwendolyn Kiste

Gwendolyn Kiste imagines Medusa condemned by her secret lover to a lifetime of purgatory.

"Is she asleep?"

The forked tongue licked its lips. The rest of the snakes did the same, mimicking the tics and tremors of each other.

"I think she's awake," the second said.

"She's waiting on him," said the third.

"I can hear you."

Medusa pulled herself from the bare mattress, steadying one hand against the peeling wallpaper.

"Feed us," said the snakes.

Below, the traffic honked and squealed along winding city streets.

"It's not midnight yet," she said. "We never go out until later."

"We never go out at all anymore." The first snake flitted forward and back, side to side, his thin form coiling and straightening. "We could starve."

The rest of the forked tongues tittered in agreement. "And what would it be like to have a head of dead snakes?"

"Quieter," Medusa said. "It would be quieter."

She waited at the window, the stained curtain concealing her face from the passersby on the sidewalk below. Occasionally, a small child would spot an eye watching from the window. But an eye wasn't enough to do any damage. The child could point all day, but so long as Medusa remained at least half hidden, the world would turn, oblivious.

The second snake bit Medusa's forehead, its sharp teeth sinking into the Gorgon's skin but withdrawing no sustenance. "Remember when we dined like kings?"

The third snarled. "Remember when we dined on kings?"

"Cities fell at your feet," the first whispered in her ear, and Medusa's lips twitched into a smile.

"And as they turned to granite," the snakes said in unison, "we feasted on their fear."

"That was many moons ago." Medusa crossed the one-room apartment, a vacant place with no more than a bare mattress and withered window dressings. "The world is different now."

"You're the one who's different," they said. "Too heartbroken to strike fear in the hearts of deserving men."

She swatted at the snakes. "It's not like that. It's just -"

Footsteps in the stairwell. The room went still. Though desperate to hide it, Medusa trembled, and the snakes tried to slither away from her lovelorn uneasiness. When they couldn't escape, they bit her instead and hissed in tandem.

"He's here," they said.

Fumbling with the half crumbled light switch, Medusa plunged them into darkness and withdrew to the corner, her bare feet enduring splinters from the rotted floor.

"How will we scare him from here?" the snakes asked.

"We won't," Medusa said, thrusting her hands against the snakes to muffle their voices. "Now quiet."

The footsteps continued their trek to the end of the hallway. It was indeed him. Medusa and the snakes were sure of it now. It had been months since they'd seen him, so long ago she'd lost track of the days. But the door was always unlatched just in case.

He hesitated for a moment as if reconsidering. Then he thrust open the door and slipped inside. The silver blade of his sword flashed against the glint of the streetlight.

Perseus secured the bolt behind him.

"Medusa?" He stepped to the center of the room. "Are you home?"

She scoffed. "Where else would I be?"

Like dancers on a stage, they circled the hollow apartment, the Gorgon always staying one pirouette ahead of him.

"I know it's been a while." He followed the perimeter of the room, yanking off shreds of wallpaper as he struggled to find Medusa in the darkness.

"I thought you'd forgotten me," she said.

At the sound of her voice, Perseus quickened his steps. "How could I forget you? You're the one I've been protecting."

"Protecting?" Medusa laughed. "You think you're protecting me?"

"Of course," he said. "I even faked your death so they'd stop looking for you."

The phony Gorgon head had since retired to Medusa's closet, a souvenir from their Mount Olympus Days. The snakes always complained the likeness of them wasn't so good, but the plaster and paint did its job. Silly sea monsters fall for any old trick. So do Olympian gods. No one had thought of Medusa for years, not even her own family. Only Perseus remembered her - and only when it was convenient.

"You did convince them I'm dead," she said, gritting her teeth, the snakes preparing to strike. "And you've condemned me to shack after shack ever since."

At the window, Perseus rested his head against the glass, the world still turning below them. "How else can I hide you?" He sighed. "And hiding is better than death, isn't it?"

"Not a smart question when the snakes are hungry," Medusa said. "How's Ann?"

Perseus hesitated. "She's well."

"And the children?"

"Everyone's fine," he said, moving toward the corner. "How are you?"

His arms searched blindly for her, and a snake retreated to avoid being swiped.